


Here Lost Amongst Our Winnings

by eudaimon



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronan doesn't remember saying yes but he's pretty sure that he didn't say <i>no</i>, either; somehow, Kavinsky knows exactly what he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Lost Amongst Our Winnings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caitthecursed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitthecursed/gifts).



> I...have no words to explain this fic. I stumbled across your letter, which lead me to your Yuleporn comment and I hadn't realised how much I wanted to write this fic until the prompt was in front of me. You wrote _if you want to write me Ronan/Kavinsky, there's no such thing as "too kinky"_. I...might have run with that idea.
> 
> I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to find somewhere to roleplay Ronan, I had so much fun writing this. If you like it, you can consider this a voucher that is good to have me write more of them for you, post reveal. This was the most fun I had all Yuletide.
> 
> I hope you like it! Happy Yuletide! ♥

It's one of those nights when Ronan's drifting in and out of it, back and forth. His body is a tide. At his side, Kavinsky is awake, alert; Ronan can feel the way he shifts against the mattress. He's not naked, not yet, still wearing his jeans. There are pills caught in the corner of his pocket.

Maybe he's taken enough.

 _Queer_ is not a word that he ever says to himself. It's not a word that he thinks. It plays in the background, non-diagetic. But he couldn't keep it from Kavinsky. Not after they dreamed together. All of those lines got blurred.

And here he is. Ronan does not do casual sex, categorically not, but there is something about Joseph Kavinsky that means Ronan would be happy, he _pleased_ to cut him to ribbons. And Ronan is all sharp edges. He has been since his dad died. Or maybe since then. 

Ronan is the sharpest thing he's ever seen.

He reaches out and stirs the gold chain around Kavinsky's neck with the tips of his fingers. He left Chainsaw back at home when he came here, back at Monmouth Manufacturing and, without her, he feels ripped open and raw, like all of his nerves are on the surface, like he can keep nothing back.

"We're going to have some fun, Lynch. Me and you."

(Ronan knows that, if this was something that he really didn't want, something that repulsed him, he'd find it in him to fight. He isn't that far away from himself. He isn't that lost. But Kavinsky's hand feels good, following the line of his spine. The warmth of Kavinsky's body pressed against his side makes Ronan's head spin. For years now, Ronan's wondered what it might feel like to be torn apart…

Kavinsky might be the only one that he trusts to get it _done_ ). 

Ronan lies still, bites his lip at the feel of the razor-blade that scrapes over the skin between his shoulders. He feels the whisper of Kavinsky's breath against his skin right before Kavinsky does the line. His tongue immediately follows, swiping up the last traces of drugs from Ronan's skin. Ronan could barely restrain a shiver.

That's it, then - that's the point of no return. After that, he knows that he's going to let Kavinsky do anything he fucking wants.

*

The first thing that Kavinsky does is lift Ronan by his hips, so that his knees are under him, his cheek still pressed against the mattress. Kavinsky's hands are rough as he yanks Ronan's jeans open, pulls them down his thighs and strips him naked. He kneels there, all but trembling, his heart a racing, bloody thing in his chest. He's dreamed almost this exact thing - the way Kavinsky leans in behind him, grinds his cock against Ronan's ass, bites the back of his neck.

Only, he always wakes up. He's got no idea how that dream ends.

The collar doesn't surprise him, when Kavinsky slips it around his throat. The leash that it's attached to is the same tangled, knotted leather as the bracelets that load his wrists. Kavinsky, Ronan notices, is not entirely naked. He's opened his jeans, peeled denim out of the way to reveal the hard thickness of his cock. Ronan catches himself staring. Kavinsky wraps the leash around his fist. 

"My eyes are up here, sweetheart," he says.  
When he tugs the leash, Ronan crawls.

He should hate himself. He really should.  
But here they are.

Kavinsky tugs Ronan's head in until his lips are almost brushing the glistening head of Kavinsky's cock. Keeping Ronan firmly where he is, Kavinsky takes hold of his cock in his other hand, uses it to paint Ronan's bottom lip slick.

"You going to suck it or you just going to stare at it all night, Lynch?"

He opens his mouth and then he slides it down Kavinsky's cock. What he doesn't exactly have in experience, he makes up for in enthusiasm. At times like this, hours like this, he finds that he loves giving head - loves the sensation of Kavinsky's cock sliding over his tongue, nudging the back of his throat. He shoves his gag reflex down, hollows his cheeks, sucks Kavinsky down as deep and as hard as he can. The collar is almost unpleasantly tight around his throat but even that's enough to make his cock ache. Having to concentrate on his breathing is enough to remind him that he's alive.

At the last minute, Kavinsky pulls his cock out of Ronan's mouth and jerks it until he comes right across Ronan's face. It clumps in his eyelashes. Ronan kneels there and takes it, and not just because of that collar snug around his throat, the leash wrapped around Kavinsky's fist. He wouldn't pull away, even if he could.

"Suits you, Lynch," leers Kavinsky, stretching his back, fondling his softening cock with his free hand. From experience, Ronan knows that that cock isn't going to stay soft for long.

"You gonna let me up?" he asks, licking his lips, tasting Kavinsky's come.  
"Fuck no," says Kavinsky, grinning. "You're not going anywhere yet."

Ronan's cock is so hard that he can't think about anything else.

Kavinsky loops the leash around the bed frame, symbolic of his control more than anything else. Ronan knows that he ought to fight against it, ought to beat Kavinsky to a pulp and assert himself like he did that night at the substance party but, God help him, he wants this. He wants every single humiliating inch of it. That's the difference between Gansey and Kavinsky; Gansey insists on treating Ronan like a person and, sometimes, Ronan feels like so much less than that.

With the leash still around his neck, Kavinsky flips Ronan so that he's lying on his back. His cock bobs and aches when Kavinsky nudges it with his fingers. He pushes Ronan's hands up over his head, lashes Ronan's wrists together with Ronan's own belt. Ronan flexes his fingers and digs his heels into the bed.

"What am I going to do with you while we wait, Lynch?" murmurs Kavinsky, trailing his fingers along the hollow of Ronan's armpit, the sharp jut of his collarbone. He rubs his thumb across one of Ronan's nipples and then he pinches it, hard, twists until Ronan makes a strangled sound. The pain makes his heart race, his cock throb. He squirms against the mattress.

"What are we waiting for?" he asks, breathless, as Kavinsky scrapes the edge of his fingernail over Ronan's tortured nipple.  
"For me to be hard enough to give you the fuck of your life."  
"You seriously think I'm going to let you fuck me?"

They both know the answer to that.

Kavinsky arches an eyebrow.

"Just for that, Lynch, I think I'm going to spend some time teaching you some _fucking_ manners."

Ronan ends up on his face, bound wrists over his head, fingers wrapped around the leash. Kavinsky forces his thighs uncomfortably wide apart. Lube is squirted onto him, worked deep into the cleft of his ass by Kavinsky's long, blunt fingers. Ronan feels himself spread, fucked, Kavinsky's free hand in the small of his back to keep him still. WIth his hands tied together, he could barely lift his head off the mattress, just had to lie there, prone, and take whatever Kavinsky wanted to give him.

When it slid into him, into his ass, it took Ronan a moment to figure out that it was the neck of a bottle, plucked from the debris on Kavinsky's bedroom floor. He bit his lip, torn between the burning in his cheeks, the throbbing of his cock. He wanted to come so badly he could taste it. He have done pretty much anything right then, if Kavinsky would just get him off.

"How does that feel, Lynch?" asks Kavinsky, turning the bottle inside him, reaching out to rub the back of Ronan's shaved head. "How badly do you wish it was my cock? You want me to fuck you, Lynch? You changed your mind yet?"

Church-going or not, sometimes, Ronan feels like he's got the devil in him. He shakes his head just to see what happens.

"Fuck no."

Kavinsky keeps Ronan pressed into the bed as he spanks him, first with his hand and then with a rolled up skin mag, hard across his ass like he's a puppy that's pissed on the kitchen floor. Ronan's face gets hotter and hotter, his cock gets harder and harder, until he's squirming and gasping, his fingers flexing to make fists.

"If you come before I say you can, I'm going to rub your fucking face in it, Lynch," whispers Kavinsky, his mouth suddenly close to Ronan's ear. His hands are on Ronan's hips again, tugging his ass up. He fucks him with the bottle, just a few strokes, and then he pulls it out, drops it on the bed. His belt, when it cuts across Ronan's ass, stings like burning.

Kavinsky makes Ronan count every, single stroke.

"Jesus," he says, finally, losing count somewhere around twenty. "Jesus, you can fuck me. You can fuck me."

Kavinsky makes him get back up on all fours, his thighs still spread wide. He rubs the end of his thick cock against Ronan's asshole, which is still slick, still ready, from before. He shoves into Ronan in one go, so deep that Ronan can taste it. Kavinsky only gives him a split second to adjust before he slaps Ronan's already reddened ass.

"Go on, then," he says. "Let me see you fuck yourself, Lynch. Let me see you work for it."

Ronan does, too. He rocks backwards and forwards on his hands and knees, feels the length of Kavinsky's cock sliding in and out of him. His own cock bobs and sways between his thighs and Ronan wishes he could reach back and touch it, stroke it in time with Kavinsky's thrusts, but his hands are still bound. 

Kavinsky doesn't let Ronan do all the work for long. He holds onto Ronan's hips so tightly that Ronan's sure that he's going to have bruises in the morning and he fucks him hard, fucks him deep, every single stroke grazing Ronan's prostate until he's sure that he's going to go mad with it, until he can't still straight.

He comes hard, shooting across the tangled sheets, and it's only after he's done, after he's spent, that he realises that Kavinsky never said that he _could_.

Fuck.

What he isn't entirely expecting is for Kavinsky to pull out of him altogether, leaving himself feeling vulnerable and wide-open. Kavinsky manhandles him a little bit, takes hold of the back of his neck. 

"What did I say was going to happen, Lynch? If you came before I said you could?"

"You said you were going to rub my fucking face in it."

He does, too, nose first, then cheek down, making sure that he's covered in it, that it smudges in his eyelashes where Kavinsky's come has already dried. He's pretty boneless after that and, when Kavinsky pushes him over onto his back, hitches his knees higher and then slides back into him, it's all that Ronan can do is moan.

This time, it's slower, deeper, and Kavinsky is so close that the tip of his nose almost touches Ronan's. Ronan is bracketed by Kavinsky's arms and he shifts his hips, meeting every single thrust.

"You bastard," he murmurs. "You absolute fucking _bastard_."

But when Kavinsky kisses him, Ronan opens his mouth for Kavinsky's tongue. He's given up trying to understand the whys and wherefores of this. Him and Kavinsky are something alike, maybe. They're both getting something they need.

Kavinsky comes inside him and they both lie there. Ronan can't envision ever moving again. He can't remember saying yes to any of this; he's sure that he didn't say no. Kavinsky did say that consent is overrated.

Ronan will count his bruises in the morning.

* 

He's relieved to find Gansey still awake when he gets back to Monmouth Manufacturing. What he really needs is a shower, to get the scent of fucking, the flush of blood, out of his skin. What he wants, though, is to sprawl on the sofa with Gansey, their legs intertwined. They don't talk. They don't have to. Gansey barely looks up from his book when Ronan comes in. There's a collar, knotted and wrapped around itself, stuffed into the pocket of Ronan's jacket.

Finally, he feels safe enough to close his eyes.


End file.
